


Rewrite The Story

by Severina



Category: Queer as Folk (US)
Genre: Gapfillerpalooza
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2005-01-03
Updated: 2005-01-03
Packaged: 2017-10-10 19:13:54
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 817
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/103227
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Severina/pseuds/Severina
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>There is no Brian Kinney.</p><p>He is a myth.  A legend.  And I'm tired of playing the part.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Rewrite The Story

**Author's Note:**

> Episode 122  
> Written for "Gapfillerpalooza"

_"You'll always be young and you'll always be beautiful. You're Brian Kinney, for fucks sake." _

* * *

What the fuck time is it?

I lean on my elbow, squinting against the crisp bars of sunlight slanting across the bed, and try to read the time on the clock. Except that the clock isn't there. What the fuck kind of shit was I on last night, and why would I hide my fucking alarm clock? I shake my head, and decide that is a big mistake. I'm going to kill that slut Anita. Okay. The night is a haze of Beam and beer, and my throat is killing me. Was I at Babylon? Fucking bars and their fucking dry ice. I'll sue Sap for the damage to my vocal chords, the bastard.

I slump back against the cool cotton sheets, resigned to viewing the world through shuttered eyes, at least until the room stops spinning and whatever unlicensed pharmaceuticals Anita fed me this time work through my system. And then I spot the scarf draped over the end of the bed, and I don't have to worry about the shit that may or may not be spiralling through my veins because I'm becoming intimately acquainted with the toilet basin.

A splash of cold water on my face. My hands are only slightly shaking as I check my neck unflinchingly. No bruising, thank fuck. But my skin is blanched of colour and dark circles haunt my eyes.

Always young and beautiful. Oh Mikey.

* * *

I sort through the paraphernalia littering my bathroom cabinet. Advil, Aleve, Benadryl, fucking gauze bandages? Where the fuck did this shit come from? But of course I know

_Justin_

exactly where. I dig past the assortment of crap to find the Tylenol shoved in the back corner. Right. Allergies. I dry-swallow two of the tablets, add a third for good measure, and slam the cupboard door, leaving the rest of the shit wherever it scattered. Fuck it.

* * *

I slide into worn track pants and wander to the kitchen. I make a pot of my Peruvian blend, savouring the way the aroma seeps throughout the loft and permeates every corner. A decent pot of coffee can make life worth living.

Fuck.

I deliberately don't look at the end of the bed.

* * *

I sit through three messages from Mikey before I finally pick up the phone and assure him that I haven't offed myself in the middle of the night.

He tells me that Deb's worried about me, and pissed off at me for not attending his going away party. "You know Ma," he says, and I do, and imagine he's held her back from calling me herself and giving me a piece of her mind, reminding me how I've disappointed her again, how I'm always thinking of myself, how I've ruined Mikey's life now and for the end of time because I'm so fucking self-centred.

But Mikey really wants to talk about David. I know he does. The words hang unspoken in the air, crackling over the hisses and hums in the phone line. He wants my advice, my opinion, my word from on fucking high. But he doesn't say a word about Doctor Feelgood, probably because he's being mindful of my delicate state or some such shit. I don't give a fuck why, I'm just grateful.

It's only after we hang up that I realize he's supposed to leave for Portland today.

I don't call him back.

* * *

Mikey had moved the chair back to the dining room. But I'll always know where it sat. I look up at the beam, the one beam that finally caught and held the scarf in place, and remember exactly what it felt like... The rush. The fear mixed with the thrill.

No need to worry about corporate bullshit, or tower offices in Manhattan, or growing old or growing tired, or Mikey or Gus or

_Justin_

anyone else.

The chance to finally, irrevocably, thrust myself forward into the hands of fate.

_"You'll always be young and you'll always be beautiful. You're Brian Kinney, for fucks sake." _

I fling the mug and it smashes into the wall, shattering into shards that sparkle in the late afternoon sunlight, and it amazes me that I can see beauty in this, even as I upend the lamp to follow it, even as the ashtray joins the debris, even as I rage against all that is Brian Fucking Kinney.

There is no Brian Kinney.

He is a myth. A legend. And I'm tired of playing the part. So fucking tired.

* * *

The scarf is soft against my hands.

I don't have a fucking death wish, no matter what Mikey thinks.

I want to live.

I want to rewrite the tired lines that I haven't believed for months. I want to laugh and dance and fuck and dream.

I want

_Justin_

to live.

I think I know how to begin.


End file.
